Jaine Austen 1 - This Pen for Hire (13 page)

“Hey, it worked, didn’t it?”

“It sure did,” he grinned. “Not that I approve, but you’re really pretty good at this detective stuff.”

Then he grabbed his car keys and started for the door.

“C’mon,” he said. “We’d better hurry if we don’t want to get stuck in traffic.”

“Where are we going?”

“To do something you should have done a long time ago.”

“What?”

“Talk to the police.”

D
etective Rea looked up from his desk in annoyance as his assistant ushered us into his office.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said, with all the charm of an angry rottweiler.

I’d tried convincing Cameron it was a waste of time to go to the cops, but he insisted. He said I wasn’t giving Detective Rea a chance, that it was our civic duty to tell him what we knew about the case.

So here we were, sitting across from Detective Timothy Rea, he of the red hair and know-it-all smirk. He sat back in his swivel chair, his hands clasped behind his neck, and gave Cameron the once-over. Probably wondering whose penis was bigger. Rea was that kind of guy.

“I’m a friend of Ms. Austen’s,” Cameron said. “Cameron Bannick.”

Cameron held out his hand. Rea hesitated a beat, then grudgingly reached forward to shake it.

“How can I help you?” he grunted.

“We’re here to fill you in on some facts we’ve discovered about Stacy Lawrence’s murder.”

“Such as?”

“Such as this.”

Cameron handed Rea the picture of Daryush and Stacy cavorting in bed.

Rea snickered like a teenage kid with his first issue of
Playboy.

“There’s no accounting for tastes,” he said, tossing the picture back across his desk.

“Detective Rea,” I said, trying to keep my annoyance at bay, “Daryush Kolchev was having an affair with Stacy Lawrence.”

“Welcome to the club. From what I hear, he was one of many.”

“We think she may have been blackmailing him.”

Rea took out a rubber ball from his desk drawer and started squeezing it in the palm of his hand—no doubt to prove he had a grip of steel, and to let us know just how bored he was by this conversation.

“Last week, you thought Stacy was blackmailing Andy Bruckner.”

“She might have been blackmailing both of them. It’s possible, isn’t it?”

He looked at me and sighed.

“So what are you saying? That Kolchev killed Stacy? Or was it Bruckner?”

“I don’t know. It could’ve been either of them. Or maybe it was Jasmine Manning. She was at Stacy’s apartment the night of the murder. Or Stacy’s neighbor Elaine Zimmer. I know it sounds nuts, but she might have killed Stacy to get her apartment. All I know is, there are plenty of suspects out there other than Howard Murdoch.”

“Those are very colorful theories, Ms. Austen. I’ll have to look into them.”

Yeah, right. He’d be looking into them about as fast as I’d be joining the LA Sports Club.

“I think you should know,” Cameron said, “that two nights ago Ms. Austen and I were stalked on the freeway.”

“Stalked?”

“A black BMW chased us, then cut us off in the fast lane. We almost wound up crashing through the center divider.”

“You sure it wasn’t just another freeway nutcase?”

“We’re sure,” Cameron said, a hint of impatience in his voice.

“Did you get the license plate number?”

“No,” I said. “It all happened too fast.”

“We think someone is trying to get Ms. Austen to stop her investigation of Stacy’s murder.”

“Not only that, somebody left a warning note at my apartment.”

“A warning note?”

“It said M.Y.O.B. Mind Your Own Business. Only the ‘B’ was backwards. I think the killer may be dyslexic.”

“The bottom line,” Cameron said, “is that someone is out to intimidate Jaine. Someone who doesn’t want her investigating this murder.”

Rea thought this over, then sat up straight in his chair.

“I agree with you.”

“You do?”

I have to admit I was surprised. Maybe Cameron was right. Maybe I hadn’t given Rea a fair chance.

“Someone definitely wants you to stop your investigation, Ms. Austen.”

He stopped squeezing his rubber ball and put it on his desk.

“But did it ever occur to you that they’re trying to get you to quit nosing around—not because they killed Stacy—but simply because what you’re discovering could be embarrassing to them?”

The rubber ball had rolled to the edge of his desk. Now it dropped off onto the floor. Rea ignored it. My guess was he didn’t want to bend down in front of us to pick it up. A definite no-no in the world of testosterone power plays.

“Let’s say Daryush sent you that note. Let’s say he chased you on the freeway. Maybe he just wanted you to butt out so he wouldn’t get in trouble with his wife. Same for Andy Bruckner.”

I got up from my chair. “Come on, Cameron. I told you this would be a waste of time.”

“Look, Ms. Austen. I can’t arrest Daryush Kolchev just because he was sleeping with Stacy. If I arrested every guy who slept with Stacy Lawrence, we’d run out of jail cells in no time.”

I started for the door.

“Bring me the warning note,” he called out. “I’ll test it for fingerprints if that will make you happy.”

I stopped in my tracks and turned back to him.

“The only thing that would make me happy, Detective, is for you to take me seriously.”

And with that I turned and stalked out the door. Which would have been very impressive if I hadn’t tripped over that damn rubber ball.

“What a putz,” Cameron said, as we headed out to the parking lot. “I felt like taking that ball and bouncing it off his fat head.”

“I can’t believe I tripped over the damn thing.”

“If it’s any consolation,” Cameron grinned, “you looked very graceful going down.”

I blushed at the memory of my humiliation. Landing splat on my tush in front of Cameron and Detective Rea, whom I’m quite certain I saw stifling a laugh.

We’d driven over to police headquarters in Cameron’s Jeep. Now, as we headed home on the San Diego Freeway, I have to admit I was a tad paranoid. My heart lurched every time I saw a black BMW, certain it was going to plow right into us. But the trip back home was mercifully uneventful. Just your run-of-the-mill tailgaiters, lane switchers, and bimbos putting on makeup at seventy miles an hour.

“Do you think it’s possible Rea was right?” I asked as we pulled up in front of Bentley Gardens. “That our freeway stalker had nothing to do with the murder?”

Cameron thought it over. “I know Rea’s a putz, but his theory makes sense.”

“Yeah,” I admitted grudgingly. “I guess it does.”

“Then how come I don’t believe it?”

“You don’t?”

He shook his head.

“Up to now, I thought Howard was probably the killer. But these past few days have changed my mind. I think there’s a killer out there, and it’s not Howard.”

“Thank goodness,” I sighed. “I was beginning to think maybe everybody else was right and I was losing my marbles.”

“Nope,” he said. “I’m just as nuts as you are.”

Then he glanced over at the clock on the dashboard. “Oh, jeez. It’s after three.”

“Who’s taking care of your shop?”

“Actually, no one.”

“You mean you shut down your shop just to help me out?”

“Hey, it’s slow during the week. No big deal.”

But of course it was a big deal. An exceedingly big deal. I felt like throwing my arms around him and giving him a sweet, innocent friendly kiss of gratitude. Oh, who am I kidding? I felt like kissing him for real, hot and sweaty. But I refrained from any lip action, just thanked him again for helping me out. Then I climbed down from the Jeep and walked over to my Corolla.

I’m happy to report that I made it there without landing on my fanny.

“Talk to you later.” Cameron waved, then took off down the street. I got in the Corolla, and just as I was buckling my seat belt, I looked down at my T-shirt and discovered a crusty blob of dried-up tuna. It must have landed there while I was eating lunch.

Which meant I’d been walking around all afternoon with tuna on my T-shirt. Good Lord. I can’t take myself anywhere.

I headed back home, marveling at the day’s events. My head was still reeling at the thought of Daryush and Stacy having sex. I had a hard enough time picturing them in the same species, let alone in the same bed.

And Yetta, Daryush’s wife. Who would have thought the frumpy hausfrau buying cubic zirconia from Home Shopping was a wealthy woman?

I pulled up in front of my duplex and made my way up the front path, hurrying past Lance’s apartment in case he was lurking, ready to pounce with a new complaint.

I let myself into my apartment and found Prozac right where I left her, napping on my pillow, a trail of kitty litter on the comforter. She leapt off the bed at the sight of me and came bounding to my side like an eager puppy. (No, it wasn’t love. It was the tuna on my T-shirt.)

After checking my mail for threatening notes (none) and bills (plenty), I stretched out on the sofa and thought about the case.

Was Daryush the killer?

It could easily have been him stalking us on the freeway. But that still didn’t explain the BMW that Elaine saw the night of the murder. Why would Daryush have driven a BMW to Bentley Gardens? He didn’t have to drive anything to Bentley Gardens; he already lived there. And if Daryush didn’t drive a BMW the night of the murder, who did?

Was it Andy? Or Jasmine? Or had Elaine Zimmer made up the whole story about the BMW to throw suspicion away from herself?

My mind swimming with possibilities, I picked up a pad and pencil and jotted down the following:

My Suspects
by Jaine Austen

ANDY BRUCKNER. Blackmail victim? Killed Stacy to shut her up? Drives black BMW. Says he was at work the time of the murder, but the only one who can back him up is his slimy snake of an assistant, who I wouldn’t trust with a ten-foot deal memo.

JASMINE MANNING. Killed Stacy to get her boyfriend back? Admits to being at the scene of the crime. Easy access to black BMW (Andy’s). No alibi. No corroborating witnesses. No fat on her inner thighs.

ELAINE ZIMMER. Killed Stacy to get a bigger apartment?

DARYUSH KOLCHEV. Motive same as Bruckner’s. Access to BMW. Alibi: Says he was home watching TV with his wife, but he could have slipped out and bonked Stacy to death while his Yetta was in the kitchen fixing him a bowl of borscht.

DEVON MacRAE. Could have killed Stacy in a fit of passion. The old “If I can’t have her, no one can” motive. Easy access to BMW at the Palmetto parking lot.

I studied my list. I wish I could say I was struck with a sudden bolt of insight. But sadly, the only conclusion I came to was this:

Practically everybody in L.A. has access to a BMW.

I
was curled up in bed with Prozac and my list of suspects, drifting in and out of a delicious nap. It was that wonderful time of the day when the sun is going down and fog is rolling in and you know that at any minute it’ll be dark, and you can pour yourself a well-deserved glass of wine.

I was lying there, trying to decide what to defrost for dinner, when the phone rang. It was Kandi.

“You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

“No, of course not. Absolutely not. Forgotten what?”

“The auction. Our passport to eligible men. It starts at six.”

I looked at my watch. It was twenty of.

“Damn,” I said, leaping off the sofa.

“I knew you’d forget. It’s all psychological. Deep down, you don’t really want to meet anyone.”

“Okay, Dr. Freud. Save your insights for Fred the Cockroach. I’ll throw on some clothes and get there as soon as I can.”

“Throw on something expensive. Rich men are attracted to women who dress well.”

“Really? And all along I thought they were attracted to big tits.”

I got off the phone and headed to my closet, looking for something that wouldn’t get me thrown out of the tony premises of Christie’s auction house. I decided on a pair of black slacks, a beige silk blouse, and a houndstooth blazer I’d bought half price at Bloomingdale’s.

I hoisted my mop of curls into a ponytail, put on some lipstick, and hurried to the kitchen, practically tripping over Prozac, who, like all cats, labors under the mistaken belief that darting in and around your ankles somehow makes you move faster. Finally, I made it to the kitchen and opened up a can of mystery animal parts optimistically dubbed Gourmet Mixed Grill.

I left Prozac inhaling her dinner and headed off to the auction.

It was rush hour, so traffic was a nightmare. I inched my way over to Christie’s, stuck behind an octogenarian going fifteen miles an hour in the left lane. Lewis and Clark made better time than I did.

At last I pulled into one of Beverly Hills’ many municipal parking lots and spiraled my way up about a hundred and two levels until I finally found a spot. Too impatient to wait for the elevator, I clattered down a dirty metal staircase, emerging at last onto the pristine streets of Beverly Hills. I dashed down Camden Drive to Christie’s, a neoritzy ersatz townhouse nestled in the heart of a bunch of latte shoppes.

I came bursting into the lobby, looking very attractive indeed with most of my hair drooping from my ponytail, gasping for air, and a fine mist of sweat on my upper lip. I started across the lobby toward the auction room but was stopped by a band of stunning blond Valkyries who, after looking me up and down with undisguised disapproval, asked me for bank references. They wanted to make sure I had enough money to actually pay for anything I might bid on. After I finished laughing, I explained to them that my bank and I were barely on speaking terms, that my checking account balance was a paltry two-digit affair, and that I was at the auction only as an observer. I promised I wouldn’t bid on anything, and reluctantly they let me in.

Looking around the room, I saw that Kandi was right about the auction being filled with attractive wealthy guys. Trouble was, most of them were sitting thighs akimbo with other attractive wealthy guys.

The auctioneer was a tall Brit with a velvet baritone voice. He stood at a podium, next to some more Valkyrie assistants. Another bank of beauties manned a row of telephones, accepting phone bids, most likely from celebrities who didn’t want to drive up the prices by appearing in person.

The items for sale were not displayed on the premises as I had imagined they would be, but on a TV monitor next to the auctioneer.

I found Kandi in one of the back rows reading a catalogue, an auction paddle at her side. Thanks to
Beanie & The Cockroach
, her bank account was a lot healthier than mine.

“It’s about time,” she hissed, as I slid into the seat next to her.

“What did I miss?”

“Not much. The most hideous chair just sold for sixteen thousand dollars.”

“I don’t want to say anything,” I whispered, “but most of these guys look gay.”

“Not that one. Over there.” She nodded in the direction of a chunky guy across the aisle, in bermuda shorts and a Miami Dolphins baseball cap. Kandi was right. He didn’t look gay. He looked like a guy who’d gone out not to bid on collectibles, but for a pastrami on rye.

“Rich but unpretentious,” she said, sizing him up.

Just then he looked up at us, and smiled.

“Bingo,” Kandi whispered.

We spent the next half hour trying to look as if we were serious buyers. Every once in a while, when she was certain that there were other bidders, Kandi would raise her paddle. Each time she did, I got nervous. What if, God forbid, the other bidders backed out and she was stuck paying sixteen grand for a hideous chair? But, as she whispered to me, she wanted Mr. Pastrami to think she was a player.

Most of the items up for sale were home furnishings from the estates of bygone movie moguls. If you ask me, it was all pretty ghastly, the kind of stuff you see at your elderly aunt’s house, who hasn’t redecorated since Eisenhower was president. But hey, this was L.A. The stuff was selling for major bucks.

I was sitting there, thinking what fools these Angelinos be, when something popped up on the screen that caught my eye, the first item that I actually would have liked to own.

It was a photo of Cary Grant, in a simple silver frame. The photo had been inscribed, “With Love From Archie.” Archie Leach, as I well knew, was Cary Grant’s real name. The auctioneer said the frame was a one-of-a-kind piece and had been designed by a famous art deco designer whose name I didn’t know. The frame didn’t look so one-of-a-kind to me; I’d probably seen knock-off copies of it at K mart.

The bidding started at five thousand. Now I like Cary Grant as much as the next person, but honestly. Five thousand dollars for a picture? Kandi raised her paddle at six. Mr. Pastrami upped the bid to seven. Someone on the phone bid twenty! Twenty thousand dollars for an eight-by-ten glossy. Then, to my horror, I saw Kandi raise her paddle at twenty-five thousand. Oh, jeez, I thought, shifting uncomfortably in my seat, she’s going to be stuck this time for sure.

I needn’t have worried. Twenty-five thousand dollars was just the beginning. The bids started flying like Frisbees in Santa Monica. The pastrami guy bid thirty, one of the phone people bid sixty, and a frumpy lady in polyester bid seventy-five. Gradually, the other bidders fell by the wayside (Kandi among them, thank goodness). In the end, the frumpy lady in polyester duked it out with one of the anonymous celebs on the phone. The picture finally sold to the phone bidder for one hundred and twenty-three thousand dollars.

Kandi turned to Mr. Pastrami and shrugged philosophically, as if to say,
“C’est la vie.”
He flashed her a smile. She flashed him one back.

I was beginning to think that Kandi’s crazy let’s-meet-guys-at-an-auction scheme was actually working, when out of nowhere a dainty redhead with an impressive set of boobs came gliding down the aisle, a diamond on her wedding-ring finger the size of a grape. She plunked herself down next to Mr. Pastrami and kissed him on his cheek.

Kandi’s face fell. “Let’s split,” she said with a sigh.

The last thing I saw as we headed up the aisle was Mr. Pastrami putting his arm around the redhead’s shoulder and copping a feel of one of her impressive breasts.

Score one for the tits.

Kandi turned in her auction paddle to the blondes at the front desk, and we stepped out into the cool night air. We decided to drown our sorrows in burritos, so we headed down Camden to the El Torito Grill, an upscale Mexican joint with plenty of dimly lit booths, just right for girl talk.

“This is insane,” Kandi said after two frosty Cuervo margaritas were delivered to our table by our stunning actor/waitperson. “I have a good life. A great job. Lots of friends. Why am I driving myself crazy trying to meet men?”

“Sex?” I hazarded a guess.

“Oh, please. I’ve had some of my best sex with a Double A battery. I’m beginning to think that Gloria Steinem was right when she said ‘A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.’”

“Did Gloria Steinem say that?”

“Either her, or Ellen DeGeneres. I’m not sure. Anyhow, the point is, I’m sick of this crap. I didn’t even think that guy at the auction was cute. He was a tubby dufus that I wouldn’t look at twice on the street.”

She took a healthy slug of her margarita.

“You’ve got the right idea, Jaine. From now on, I’m going to be like you. I’m not going to give a shit about guys. If a man comes along, fine, but I’m not going to run myself ragged chasing after them.”

Isn’t it ironic? Here Kandi was swearing off men, just when I’d started getting interested in them again.

“From now on I’m declaring a moratorium on men. No more blind dates. No more personals. No more showing up at places just because I think there’ll be guys there. No more obsessing. No more plotting. No more—Oh, God. That guy at the bar. I think he’s smiling at us.”

“Wow. That was some moratorium. Lasted a whole two seconds.”

“You’re right,” she sighed. “Old habits die hard.”

“Besides,” I said, “I think he’s smiling at the twenty-year-old blonde in the next booth.”

Kandi turned and saw that there was indeed a young blonde sitting behind us.

“Damn,” she said, taking a hefty slug of her margarita. “I’m so sick of blondes, aren’t you?”

“Totally.”

“Let’s move to some place like Malaysia. No blondes there.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Our burritos came and we dove into them with gusto. What with Kandi’s newfound resolve to give up men, I didn’t talk about Cameron and my growing attraction to him. I didn’t talk about the murder, either. I guess I wanted a break from thinking about suspects and alibis and bloody ThighMasters.

What we talked about mostly was Kandi and why she’s so obsessed with meeting men. My theory is that it’s an occupational hazard of never having been married. People wonder what’s wrong with you. So you want to hook up with someone, anyone, just to prove you’re lovable. I think it’s one of the reasons I hooked up with The Blob. Either that, or temporary insanity.

After a few hours of soul-searching chatter about life and love and how Jennifer Aniston gets her hair so straight, we finally paid our bill and headed outside. It was ten-thirty, and Beverly Hills was deserted. (After 10
P.M
., the only people walking the streets of Beverly Hills are winos, hookers, and ex-New Yorkers.)

We strolled over to where Kandi’s car was parked, and hugged each other good-bye.

“Thanks for being my friend,” Kandi said, her voice husky with emotion.

“Ditto, kiddo.”

“Want me to walk you to your car?” she offered. “Then you can drive me back to mine.”

“Nah, that’s okay. I’m sure the parking lot’s safe.”

We hugged each other again, and I headed off to get my car.

The municipal lot was fairly empty at that time of night. My footsteps echoed as I walked past the sleepy attendant on duty at the ticket booth. It suddenly occurred to me that maybe the lot wasn’t so safe after all. I was sorry I hadn’t taken Kandi up on her offer. The dimly lit stairwell seemed risky, so I rang for the elevator.

The elevator door opened immediately. I stepped inside and pressed the button for the fourth level. Just as the doors were beginning to shut, a muscular black man dressed in baggy gang-banger shorts came rushing up to the elevator. I prayed the door would shut before he could get on, but he thrust his shoulder inside, and the doors sprang open again.

It was one of those godawful moments when you want to run for your life, but you don’t want to seem like a bigoted idiot who assumes every large black man is a thug. I stood there frozen with indecision as the doors slid shut.

“You going to four?” he asked, checking the lit button on the panel.

“Yes.”

“Me too.”

The elevator creaked its way up to the fourth level. I stood there, cursing myself. I should’ve run while I had the chance. The elevator finally jerked to a stop, and the doors opened.

I got out. So did the black man in the baggy shorts. I walked over toward my car. Baggy Shorts was right behind me.

I was so busy picturing the possible headlines (
Freelance Writer Mugged in Parking Lot
or
Freelance Writer Strangled With Her Own Control Top Pantyhose
), that at first I didn’t hear the roar of the car’s engine.

“Hey, lady! Watch out!”

I looked up and saw it coming straight at me. A black BMW. The same black BMW that had come after me on the freeway.

I dived between two parked cars and felt a frightening whoosh of air as the car missed me by inches.

My heart pounding wildly, I watched in horror as the car sped past me down the spiraling path to the exit. But it was going way too fast to negotiate the curve. Brakes screeching, it spun out of control and crashed into a concrete pole, the front end caving in like an expensive Bavarian accordion.

The black man came racing to my side.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I lied.

Together we walked over to the BMW. At last I’d get to identify my pursuer. I looked in the front seat. Sitting there unconscious, slumped over the steering wheel, was a curly-haired young guy in an Armani suit. At first I had no idea who he was. And then it came to me.

I remembered the day I’d shown up at Andy Bruckner’s office, and the obnoxious twerp in the Larry King suspenders who’d given me the brush.

The man behind the wheel—my freeway stalker—was none other than Kevin Delaney, Andy Bruckner’s assistant.